Dead End

“That little weasel.”

“Yeah, well, at least they got one killer off the street.”

“Which leaves your case. Is Sheridan going to make the a

“I don’t know what he’s going to do. I’m hoping he doesn’t. I’m hoping whoever is involved with this thinks he’s gotten away with it.”

“I agree. Keep him guessing. Even though Vandergris has already said he hasn’t killed those girls, I think it’s best to keep everyone guessing on that point. I wouldn’t address it until I had to.”

“Yeah, maybe the killer-killers-will do something stupid. And it’s not as if anyone seems to care much, one way or another, about my girls. Their deaths haven’t gotten too much attention these past few weeks. All the focus has been on the other girls, the kids from the nice families and the good neighborhoods.”

“Unfortunately, you know that makes better press. And like it or not, this was a story that had strong emotional appeal and a certain amount of built-in sensationalism. But the lack of focus on your vics may work to your advantage.”

“Well, either way, I imagine the D.A. will find a way to keep Vandergris in the foreground for a few more weeks so he can wring every potential future vote out of it.”

“Cynic.”

“Oh yeah. My middle name.”

“Well, with luck, Detective Manley will be able to give you some insights that could help lead you in the right direction.”

“I’m afraid that might be too much to hope for.” Someone spoke in the background, and Evan covered the phone with his hand. When he came back on the line, he said, “Gotta run. They’re calling my flight. See if you can catch some of the press conference this morning.”

While she finished packing for her trip, A

Already ru

14

Evan sat on a metal folding chair in the cramped windowless room that Detective Donald Manley called his office, and read through the reports that had been copied for him.

Manley, a tall gaunt man with long fingers and a long sharp nose, went about his business of making calls on a battered-looking phone from a desk that appeared to have been abused at the hands of many. Occasionally, Evan would ask a question or two between Manley’s calls, but other than that, there had been little conversation between the two men.

Each was following his own agenda. Manley’s focus was on tracking down a witness to a shooting the night before. Evan’s was on following the story Manley had laid out for him.

According to the file, eight months earlier, the bodies of three young girls, each killed by a single bullet to the back of the head, had been found in Bonsall Park in the city. For a while, it appeared the case-the press had dubbed it the Bonsall Park Murders-would be retired to the cold-case room, since there were no witnesses and no suspects. But through networking and sca

“Why do you suppose it took New Orleans so long to put this together?” Evan asked when Manley had ended his phone conversation.

“Only two of the bodies were found in the city. The others were found in two other parishes and appeared to be unco

“How did you find him?”

“I went state by state on the computer, looking for young girls who’d been killed execution style. These cases stood out.” Manley rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin, a telltale sign he’d been on the job since early that morning.

“Then there’s a possibility there could be more,” Evan said softly.

“Sure.” Manley nodded wearily. “We can only track what’s been entered. We both know that there are departments that aren’t up to snuff when it comes to using computers. Some of the smaller departments don’t have perso

Manley removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes slowly.

“Come on.” He stood and stretched. “Let’s take a ride.”

Evan drove his rental car because the air-conditioning in Manley’s department-issued vehicle hadn’t worked for the past two summers and he hadn’t gotten around to getting it fixed. The day had been hot and humid, and the sun had several hours to go before it set. Following Manley’s directions, Evan wended his way through busy city streets, then pulled into a broad parking lot when they reached their destination. Somehow, Evan had known they’d end up here. It was exactly where he’d have taken Manley if their positions were reversed.

They got out of the car without speaking, and Evan followed his host along a winding path that led to a stream that tumbled over a rocky bottom.

“Man-made.” Manley pointed to the stream as they crossed over it on a wooden footbridge. “They brought the rocks in, stocked it with fish and other water creatures. Those trees along the banks? All brought in by some big-time landscaper from back east. Designs city parks. The city spent a fortune to make the place look as natural as possible.”

They continued along the path until they reached a fountain that sat in the center of the convergence of four paths.

“They were all found there, in the fountain. Draped over the wall, facedown in the water.” Manley walked closer, pointing as he spoke. “My victim number one right here. Number two, eight, ten feet to the right. And over here, my vic number three.” His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. “She didn’t look like she was older than thirteen, fourteen.”

“Which one of them was wearing the seeds around her neck?”

“Little number three. That’s the only clue I had, going into this. Those bean seeds. It was curiosity that led me to send them over to the university to have them analyzed. I never dreamed they would prove to be the lead that could eventually help us to find her killers.”

He turned to look Evan in the eye.

“And I will find them. It may take a while longer, but I will find them. I like to think she brought those seeds with her so she’d always have a part of her home with her. It would be fitting, don’t you think, if those seeds are the co

“Have you thought of circulating her picture and those of the others, through the press down in Santa Estela?” Evan asked.

“I did send the girls’ photos down to the police in Cortés City, the capital. I got an acknowledgment by way of a phone call.” Manley kicked at the side of the fountain. “The Cortés police informed me that many kids from those poor countries-such as Santa Estela-go missing every day. Some of them are from villages well beyond the city limits. We’d have to get very, very lucky to get an ID on any of these kids, he tells me. Chances are, anyone who’d recognize them doesn’t read the papers. He says some of those villages are pretty damned remote.”

“In other words, don’t waste his time.”